I think it would probably kill God to give a direct answer to anything.
And it would probably kill me to hear the direct answer.
In this way God and I spare each other
the awkward conversation, with both our arms shaking
under this ashy rock that won’t fit through my door—
this thing he brought me because, drunk, I asked him to.
[This poem was originally published in the print journal Relief, Spring 2019]
https://www.reliefjournal.com/spring-2019